


CLAU

by MythosMeta



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, reference to self harm? just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 05:34:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16968618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythosMeta/pseuds/MythosMeta
Summary: Self-indulgent open-ended domestic nonsense because no one can stop me





	CLAU

**Author's Note:**

> ive been looking at this for years just take it 
> 
> they’re in the Warehouse instead of the cave place because I said so
> 
> P.S. hi Cesca im trying to make u proud

Desmond woke to an off-white ceiling, the trappings of the Animus, and the clicking of desktop keys filling the office around him. As his vision cleared around the edges and he took in more of the Warehouse, memories of where his consciousness just returned from flashed in his mind's eye. An elderly Ezio, Constantinople, The Black Room. The deletion sequence. _Clay._ He jerked against the instruments of the Animus, frantically casting his gaze about. He spotted his father at Shaun's desk for whatever reason. Brushing aside questions about William, Desmond raised his scratchy voice for what felt like, and probably was, the first time in months. 

"Dad?" 

William reared back from the screen he was scanning, gaze snapping to Desmond. 

"Son?"

"...I'm fine. Get me out of here; we need to talk." Desmond struggled against the odds and ends attaching him to the Animus, suddenly itching to get his sluggish body out of its fugue state. William, after a short pause, approached and pressed a button, releasing the latches across Desmond's hands and retracting the screen over his head. Finally free, Desmond rose to his elbows and flung himself from the accursed chair only to faceplant into his father's chest, blood rushing and jelly-boned from his coma. William hastily and awkwardly lowered him back onto the seat, sitting upright at the very least. 

"Where's the fire, Desmond? You've been out for some time, take it easy." He muttered. 

Desmond felt like he couldn't get his answers out fast enough. "The _fire_ , Dad, is right here in this fucking chair! There's a _guy_ in it!"

William hesitated once more, brows furrowing. "...I can see that. What's wrong with you?" 

"It's not about me it's- look, we have to get Shaun and Rebecca in here on this right now! Check th-" A violent crackle of electricity cut him off. The Animus began to vibrate in a way that would have been relaxing from any other chair. Desmond pushed off again, stumbling around to fix his eyes on the port where Clay's hard drive was plugged in. The device suddenly ejected, clattering across the hardwood floor to rest at Desmond's feet, revealing a beam of blue light connecting the plug and the socket. The beam began to morph, thinning at the ends and growing in the middle, forming a familiar outline. An echoing voice broke through the chaos, but not the one he expected.

"Desmond Miles."

His back hunched defensively, stance solidifying, eyes scanning the room for an intruder. "...Speaking. And this is?"

"I am Juno. This one has been promised to you as an aid. Neither death nor deletion shall stand in your path. The danger remains. To prevent catastrophe, I give you this favor, but only once."

The thin, humanoid lines gave way to a stream of data, ones and zeroes that morphed into assorted ASCII and then Greek reminiscent of Clay's glyphs. Together they formed the image of the man himself, the same faintly glowing light blue until he slowly gained color, finally indistinguishable from the AI Desmond thought he left for dead moments ago. Desmond's lead feet seemed to disappear as their gazes locked. A smile lit up Desmond's face as he rushed to meet his companion, stopping a step short in respect for what appeared to be another hologram of him, unable to receive a hug no matter how enthusiastic. 

Clay, apparently still recovering from the surprise of existing at all, continued to stare back, wide-eyed and with an expression more open than Desmond had witnessed without the mood-dampener of a breakdown. Desmond, taking this moment to reflect on the elation that Clay was sort of alive, the creepy lady voice was gone, his father still hadn't shouted at him yet, and just having an all-around dandy first hour out of a coma, threw caution to the wind. It was time to celebrate. He went for the hug. And his arms met what felt like solid, warm, fleshy human. Briefly adding it to the list of miracles today, he followed through with the gentle contact until it seemed only polite to draw back. 

Clay's response was oddly soft. "...Desmond? How..." His jaw clicked shut, mouth twisted in frustration. "...I'm back? Again?"

Desmond's smile only widened, the skin around his eyes bunching into pleased wrinkles. "I know, right? This is great- I mean- holy shit you're like Jesus, man. Didn't I tell you? Real angel material here." His mind buzzed with thousands of questions and comments, but he was satisfied with the compliment if only for the small lopsided smile that overtook Clay's confused grimace. 

Of course, William took this as his cue to instantly kill the mood with a pointed throat-clearing. Desmond reluctantly released Clay completely, but remained close as they both turned to face him. William looked to Clay first.

"Kaczmarek? What happened to your mission?"

Clay's expression turned on its heel, with hardened words to match. "Change of plans, Mr. Miles. What happened to my escape route?"

William's naturally harsh demeanor softened a touch. "A mistake. We didn't intend for you to get stuck there." 

The dark look in Clay's eyes held fast. It was a poor excuse for an apology and they all knew it.

Desmond decided to jump in before the tense atmosphere escalated into outright hostility, gently touching Clay's forearm. "Why don't I show you the base and get you settled for now?"

A small nod, but no more words were forthcoming. As Desmond herded him away from his father and around the various levels of the Warehouse, he remained nonverbal. Desmond stopped at the door to his room, but figured Clay wouldn't mind a little company for once. At least not his company. Clay halted in the middle of the room when the door closed behind them, resisting the gentle guidance at his back. Desmond reminded himself to be patient and took a seat on his bed, patting the space to his right invitingly. Clay shuffled in place for a bit, considering the furniture, but ultimately sat right next to Desmond, brushing from shoulders to knees.

"You gonna be okay?"

"...Should be good, right? I'm real. Just- everything is- it's a lot." 

"That's fine."

Clay, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, collapsed back into the bed. 

Desmond huffed a laugh. "You're not the only one beat from sudden revival. Scoot over." Desmond pushed at Clay's shoulder insistently, but the offending hand was quickly smacked off, covers pulled up defensively. 

"Have you no respect for the dead? Let me have a bed to myself for the first time in y'know just two years no big deal."

Desmond shrugged to himself and plopped onto the couch next to the bed. "Guilting me will get you everywhere for tonight."

Clay glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. "It's two in the afternoon. Are your... people really just gonna let us sleep?"

A mumbled echo of "sleep" came from under a throw pillow. And so they did. 

***

It was proving to be two weeks of domestic bliss he never thought he'd have. Inexplicably tired during the day and up at odd hours, he watched Desmond wake up and fall asleep from his perch on the pull-out couch bed. One stressful morning, William had popped in to remind Clay there were other rooms, but he was firmly stonewalled and banished from Clay's new domain. He stayed glued to Desmond's couch and laptop throughout the days, creeping into the kitchen at night to grab snacks. Desmond could occasionally coax him out for real food, but it soon became apparent they were both content with sharing a can of microwaved Spaghettio's in their room, balancing the laptop on their knees watching Mythbusters or listening to some comedy podcast when the occasional Bleeding headaches became too much for TV.

Things were calm. Good, even.

\---

It hit Desmond, one night at nearly 3:00a.m. with some documentary on, that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. With Clay trying to haul himself out of his depressive Animus funk, he could be fun. On good days he was witty, deep and thoughtful; it was almost charming… in his own way. At least, Desmond thought so. What was he just thinking about? Right, and not even on the bad days was Clay truly bad. Desmond found that grounding and comforting him somehow calmed himself, too. Having someone to take care of bolstered his drive to save and improve Earth. The suffering Clay had endured made Desmond determined to show him the world at it's best and brightest because he deserved it, because Desmond could, because he wanted to. 

Clay shifting at his side knocked Desmond off his train of thought. Desmond smiled at the slack face pressed against his shoulder, eyelids fluttering in a shallow doze. He lowered him to the mattress and returned the laptop to the desk. Desmond climbed in next to him, pulling the covers up around them and letting his mind drift off on the thought that he ought to tell Clay about this sometime. 

\---

Clay woke to warmth, security, and a bulky weight plastered to his back and wound around his waist. He knew who it was but cracked his eyes open and craned his neck anyway. Relaxing into his newfound role as the little spoon, he wondered at this development. For the first few days they could've been any pair of roommates, sharing lunch and elbowing each other for control of the laptop. Then one meal together a day became three, they drifted from the couch to the bed, and here they were. In his thirty-some years, finding a partner had never crossed his mind; he was too wrapped up in money and college and plots to take over the world. Distantly, he remembered a longing for family and appreciation, but someone to take to prom? He’d thought he wasn't dating material from the day he started therapy. He probably never should have quit. Clearly, joining the Assassins didn't miraculously cure him of anything. His time at Abstergo and in the Animus had been the most painful years of his life. He wasn't sure if anyone could cure that. 

Clay perked up as Desmond factored back into the equation. Desmond was kind, supportive, gentle and relaxing. He listened when something was bothering him and didn't push when Clay suddenly choked on his words. He pulled him back from his anxious heights, turning on a show or some music to chase off the oppressive silence and distract him. Clay especially liked when Desmond swept his hair back from his forehead or rested a hand on his knee. Usually being touched irritated him. He wasn't sure if this exception was a result of his torture, isolation, or just Desmond, but he clung to the contact now as he did then.

He squirmed around until they were face-to-face, burrowing into his neck and draping an arm over Desmond's middle as well. He breathed deeply and waited for Desmond to wake up. 

\---

Desmond jumped at the sight of clear gray eyes inches from his own. He scrubbed a hand across his face and tried to find his voice. "Good morning."

“Do you like me?” Clay seemed to say apropos of nothing and obviously worried, as usual.

“Wh- I’ve spent every day with you for the last, like, month.” 

“Exactly. Why?”

Desmond’s head dropped back to the pillow. It was too early for this. “Because,” he waved his hand in the air meaninglessly for a bit before continuing, “I think you’re a nice guy and you deserve to have a nice, slow adjustment back to the meatspace world you helped save. And maybe a little because I kind of owe you a small life debt. Yknow?” 

“...Okay first of all I’m not back. I may have the original Clay’s body from the looks of these scars, but I don’t remember actually stabbing myself with the pen like I planned to, and I remember all the Animus junk so I must be- I don’t know, like, a programmed consciousness made material and dumped into the reanimated body? I’m maybe some Clay. And that’s who we really owe. Also, don’t say meatspace.”

“Hey, what’s this ‘we’ business? Even if you’re the AI- which I’m not sure about because if these First whatevers can reanimate the dead why couldn’t they move those Animus memories into the old you also or make you some weird amalgamation of both- but the point is: you died too.”

“Yeah that discussion can take a backseat for now. Creepy.” He paused. “Anyway, it’s not like it hurt. The deletion.”

“Not at all, huh? How about mentally? Emotionally?” 

Clay rolled his eyes.

And Desmond just about lost it. “Oh come on, you of all people know how real that stuff is! It’s important.”

“Of course it is. Just…”

“For everyone but you?”

Clay cringed at that, but kept his jaw locked tight.

“We’ll work on that self-compassion thing.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re really as dumb as you look.”

Desmond cracked a cheesily smug grin. “That so? Guess I’m workin’ my way up to a wise Master Assassin after all.” 

A weight disappeared from the bed and another pillow smacked Desmond in the face, pushing him to a laughing fit. The camaraderie of the moment struck him again. Maybe it was his imagination, but Desmond felt something was slightly different about it this time. He fiddled with the extra pillow in contemplation. 

It... smelled really nice.

\---

That night, Clay found himself in a familiar predicament. He shook Desmond’s shoulder from his place standing next to the headboard.

“That’s my side. Des. You know that’s my side, Desmond.”

The intruder simply turned his face into the pillow (which was also Clay’s, he noted possessively) and sighed deep, mumbling something that sounded like “smells good.”

“Hm?”

Desmond’s arm flailed out until a finger hooked into the collar of Clay’s shirt, tugging limply until his target gave in.


End file.
